Mama's Got A Brand New Bag......Well, Almost

Look, I've got my pride and all but I simply can't resist the allure of awesome stuff forlornly sitting curbside on trash day; awesome stuff just waiting to be whisked away to the garbage dump of no return.
I once found a $600.00 dollar sofa from Pier One in perfect shape and an equally nice entertainment center callously flung out next to trash cans brimming with the stacks of money these folks presumably use to wipe their rich heinys with.
Where did I learn this trashy behavior from? My mother.
The situation is exactly like that Public Service Announcement where the father finds his son's pot stash and incredulously asks him where he learned to do such filthy things and the kid angrily retorts "From you Dad, alright? I got it from watching YOU!!!"
Yeah, so my mom may be out of her prime refuse-hunting days but she's still a cunning addition to any Garbage Day Safari going on in H-Town.
So, about a year ago she spied with her beady eye a trashy treasure trove just ripe for the picking.
Lying haphazardly next to the street was a large piece of designer luggage in mint condition.
What could my mom do? This saucy little black bag was beckoning her forth so she stopped her truck and hopped out to have a look.
As she lifted up the suitcase she noted that it felt unnaturally heavy.
Excitedly she started fumbling with the zipper thinking that it was the luggage version of Russian Nesting Dolls.
What she found instead more closely resembled a nightmarish mystery meat Turducken Surprise.
Stuffed inside the bag was a gargantuan gray cat. It was dead. It was stiff with rigormortis. It was also staring blankly at the human who dared intrude on his perpetual cat nap while violating his final resting place.
My mom screamed and let the actual, literal, proverbial "cat out of the bag."
Hello Kitty!
This experience along with a touch of imaginary Cat Scratch Fever has pretty much cured my mom of her innate dumpster diving tendencies and her desire to travel to the Catskills.......or Kathmandu.........or the Kit Kat factory.
As a family we always try to make the best of a furry situation but alas, the Dr. Seuss company refuses to publish our cleverly titled The Cat In The Bag book--a sequel to The Cat In The Hat. Anybody know where I can purchase a little red and white striped hat for a dead cat?
Perhaps there's some money to be made in the unexplored area of kitty body bags.
Maybe the Cat In A Bag concept will interest certain local restaurants. I should trademark it immediately!
So, What's New Pussycat? It's the end of the post. Nobody reads to the end. Can I make an inappropriate joke now about the funniness of my mom out on a street corner picking up pu......No? Okay.
Just Throw It In The Bag!

We Spotted A Colossal Hung Dong While Cruising The Streets Of Houston

*WARNING: This post may offend your puritanical sensibilities. May I redirect you to something more sanitized and boringly wholesome? Perhaps you'd like to visit The Pioneer Woman and gaze upon yet another cow snapshot? It's all part of her Billion Bovine pictorial movement. What about cow labor laws? Are those cattle getting reimbursed for their exploitation at the hands of that scurrilous Pioneer Woman???!? Anyway, I cannot be held responsible for any facial marks you may incur from furiously slapping your hand to your gaping mouth while reading the shocking contents of this post.*

In its three plus years of existence The Smiling Infidel has never once featured Hung Dong pictures. So when the opportunity arose to capture this magnificent Hung Dong, I seized upon it. I consider my friend Carrot Jello to be one of the most spiritual and morally upstanding people I've ever met; and yet even she giggled like a little girl at the sight of an eerily glowing Hung Dong that beckoned to us from beyond the darkened roadway.......well, actually, she giggled after recovering from the whiplash she suffered from my abrupt full speed U-Turn action.

I think we're all in agreement here that HUNG DONG is an unfortunate name for a food market.
Can you imagine putting Hung Dong on your resume? "Uh yes, I worked briefly as a janitor at Hung Dong. It was a filthy thankless job trying to keep that Hung Dong clean. I got tired of mopping up constant spills."

The Infidel family usually shops at Kroger's grocery store. I used to own a T-shirt that I got during a customer appreciation promotion. It screamed "I LOVE KROGER'S!" in big white letters. Now let's just picture a similar giveaway from Hung Dong, shall we? I'm thinking it might give off the wrong impression to walk around wearing a garment that declares: "I LOVE HUNG DONG!" across the front.

As a general rule Hung Dong refuses to sell cocktail smokies. You'll never find a store circular advertising "The Hung Dong Now Has Little Weenies!" No, clearly the Hung Dong prefers to engage only in mondo sausage sale celebrations. They must maintain and protect their image and street cred, people.

I wonder if Hung Dong is a chain, a franchise, or a one location only kind of store? Does the owner walk around bragging to everyone he meets about his amazing Hung Dong? The proprietor obviously takes good care of his Hung Dong. Notice the impenetrable shield designed to keep Hung Dong safe?

I'll bet certain words are forbidden within the confines of the Hung Dong boardroom. In regards to discouraging sales figures the manager avoids his first instinct to sigh excessively and say things like "Oh crap, the old Hung Dong is really sagging these days." Other banished terms include "droopy" and "limp." Approved Hung Dong business words: stiff, steady growth, spread sheets, endurance, and greater volume.

So is Houston the only place where you can find a decent Hung Dong? Do other cities have a Hung Dong or will we Houstonians gain yet another title to add to our growing collection that includes The Fattest City, The Space City, and Bayou City? Hung Dong Houston. I like it. I can envision the tourism board pamphlet now: Come Visit Houston.....You'll Love Our Hung Dong!

Dropping The F Bomb On The Ones You Love....

So me and my sexy-Mexi husband Papi were lounging about in bed on Sunday night, ready to drift off into the land of Infidel dreams, when I suddenly turned to him and eagerly whispered "Hey, I really want to EFF you right here, right now" into his ear.

Startled and perhaps a bit frightened, Papi looked at me askance with his lovely manicured eyebrows arched over huge, rounded eyes.

Undeterred, I persisted. "Yeah, come on, Papi, you know that you need a good effing and it just so happens that I'm available to give it to you hard and fast."

And without further commentary I rolled over and stealthily effed Papi's mocha-toned belly with the loudest mouth farts mankind has ever heard outside of the Association for Professional Raspberry Blowers. I exerted so much effort I nearly asphyxiated myself.

Papi informed me that I was "freaking crazy" as he grabbed the bed sheet and daintily dabbed at the remaining spittle encircling his belly button.

See, there's two 4-letter F words used in the Infidel household: Fart and Foof. If I ever tell you that I'm going to "EFF you up real bad" you should tremble in fear because that usually means that either your olfactory senses are about to be assaulted or you're slated to receive a charitable donation of Smiling Infidel saliva somewhere on your person. My personal foofing technique involves a preference for flabby arms as it usually provides superb foofy-fart acoustics.

When people shrilly scream "EFF OFF!" at me, I regard that as a spirited but friendly call to some sort of impromptu FOOF smackdown challenge. Ooooh, an EFF OFF competition. Good thing I packed some Chapstick. This is going to be a long day.

I don't mean to turn this into a braggy blog but the truth is that I have, in fact, effed a lot of people in my 34 years on this planet. That number includes my own self. Yeah, that's right, I eff myself sometimes. When I think about you, I FOOF myself......... Yep, I'm a regular F***(FOOF) Extraordinaire! I also have a lot of kids. I guess that makes me the very embodiment of a Mother F***er (Foofer.) Sweet!

*Gratuituous FOOFING Action In This Video. Watch At Your Own Risk!*

What Not To Name Your Baby: Hooker Edition

This Civil War hottie not only boasts a whopping big sword but he may also be the founding father of the popped collar phenomenon.
Do you know who he is? Why, it's none other than General Joseph Dalton Hooker, commander of the Army of the Potomac. Although I prefer to call him by his street name: JO-HO
Does his last name sound vaguely familiar to you? It should.
Apparently Hooker's military headquarters acquired the unsavory reputation of being more of a bar and brothel than a war strategy think tank.
General Hooker wanted to keep up troop morale......the operative words being 'keep up.' Hooker allegedly requisitioned a passel of prostitutes to entertain his men, hence, the modern day association with his surname.

My oldest mini-Infidels broke out laughing when I relayed this lively little historical tidbit to them.

And then, as I'm wont to do, I started brainstorming a list of baby names that would be forboten if your last name was Hooker.

If you're reading this blog right now, and you happen to be a Hooker, then this is a valuable service I'm providing FREE of charge just for you. No hourly rates or a clandestine rendezvous at the No Tell Motel necessary.

MINNIE HOOKER- Works the red light district in Munchkinland.

HARRY HOOKER- Clientele includes Big Foot fetishists.

PENNY HOOKER- Lives below poverty level with Lionel Richie's Penny Lover.

CANDY HOOKER- Will satisfy any sweet tooth.

CASH HOOKER- Doesn't accept credit cards.

MERRY HOOKER- Is never filled with sadness.

KAREN HOOKER- Has a heart of gold.

SUMMER HOOKER- Gets three seasons off a year.

CRYSTAL HOOKER- Has an attached 'Handle With Care' label.

JUANA HOOKER- Are you an undercover cop?

LONDON HOOKER- Carries a lot of pounds.

CHARITY HOOKER- Accepts food stamps as payment.

RICH HOOKER- Has a golden parachute along with a golden mattress.

MARINA HOOKER- Got tired of the Lot Lizard competition at truck stops.

CHEYENNE HOOKER- The pride of Wyoming!

AMAYA HOOKER- Well am I??!?

RANDY HOOKER- Enjoys the job immensely.

PATTY HOOKER- Has no limbs.

RUSTY HOOKER- Hope you got your tetanus shot first!

CHRISTIAN HOOKER- Must be okay because it's in the Scriptures.

IMA HOOKER- You're a Hooker, wouldn't you like to be a Hooker too?

JEAN HOOKER- Only works on Casual Fridays.

MIA HOOKER- Is a proud graduate of the Hooked On Phonics:Tarzan Edition Program.

SEYMOUR HOOKER- Take our scenic Hooker Tour today!

VIOLET HOOKER- Needs the Heimlich Maneuver, STAT!

BERTHA HOOKER- Well they gotta come from somewhere.

BUCK HOOKER- Can be found soliciting outside the Dollar Store.

(My standards prohibit me from listing GAYE HOOKER and BUTCH HOOKER without parentheses. Ta-Da! Parentheses makes judgment lapses more acceptable.)

Studying History has an infinite boring factor built into it. I prefer the National Enquirer version of historical events as opposed to painfully dry textbooks penned by the class of intellgentsia solely responsible for keeping the professorial elbow patch factories in business. See how a little spark of ingenuity combined with an angle that's been marinating in salacious sauce all day really brings a Civil War history lesson to life??!?

Dang, I should be a History teacher.

No Wonder Most Politicians Have No Qualms About Bleeding Us Dry Through Taxes

If you, the general American public-bereft of advantageous upper-crust connections-neglect to report or pay your taxes properly you can expect anything from a hefty fine to the confiscation of your property to satisfy the debt.
If you, the average American politician-with enough clout that you can buy and sell your upper-crust connections-neglect to report or pay your taxes properly you can expect to be rewarded with a seat in the current Presidential administration!
I guess an obligation like taking care of taxes is only for us "little people."

Tom Daschle, former Senator, House Majority Leader, and unscrupulous health care lobbyist has now been appointed as the nominee for the position of Secretary of Health and Human Services.
No, that doesn't sound like a conflict of interest. Not at all.
Anyway, Daschle owes the United States government over 140,000 dollars in back taxes. Super. He traveled to Washington from the frosted plains of South Dakota to do good.....and he's done very well indeed!

Timothy Geithner, our newly sworn in Secretary of the Treasury, has been audited by the Internal Revenue Service more than once. The media revealed that he owed over 60,000 dollars in back taxes- a fact that Geithner blamed on his incorrect usage of the Turbo Tax program.
Seriously, he's in charge of the nation's money and he uses Turbo Tax. No, make that: He uses Turbo Tax incorrectly.
Super!
So, seeing as how Geithner now presides over the I.R.S did he simply get his fancy new Cabinet Club pen to write out a big, fat 60,000 check to himself or did he just surreptitiously wave the debts away to Never Never Land using his special Secretary of the Treasury magic wand?

I hoped for change, I really did, but it seems that we're just going to get more of the same B.S. from President B.O.

This just in......Obama's Chief Performance Officer, Nancy Killefer is forced to withdraw due to..........interlude.......duh...duh...duh...dramatic prairie dog moment.....UNPAID TAXES. What a surprise. Can anyone in the Obama administration figure out how to pay their taxes? Maybe they should commission my genius accountant husband, Papi to come on up there to D.C. and give them a helping hand.

I nearly forgot about the Democratic Congressman from New York, Charlie Rangel. He's the chairman of the powerful tax-writing House And Ways Committee. He also owes over 70,000 in unpaid taxes to the I.R.S.
Yes, we the people need to keep shining a light on these tax-evading cockroaches. I doubt any of them will scurry away with shame like a normal cockroach but at least we'll know who we're dealing with when election time rolls around again.

I'm waiting for the next novel to be released: The Audacity Of Auditing

Once Upon A Mattress (Store).........

Yeah, this post is entirely too long but it's really funny, completely factual, and has the potential to be turned into a very special Mattress Movie Of The Week.

So last week, the youngest Infidel son decided to cast himself in the starring role of a new reality show called I'm A Little PEEPOT! Yep, he's a little PEEPOT, alright, short and stout; he tipped himself over (onto my bed) and poured it all out.
My son, the mattress assassin.
I suppose it's only fitting that Senor Pissalot himself brought about the final demise of our long-suffering mattress since he was birthed into this mortal coil on that very same mattress seven years ago. It's akin to a mattress version of The Circle Of Life.
R.I.P Marital Mattress. For 14 years your creaky spring coils and saggy padding endured a lot of blood, sweat, and tears.......and crumbs.
All of a sudden, I feel like mournfully singing a verse or two of Sunrise/Sunset.
Up until last week I was still a mattress-buying virgin, pure and mild.
Nothing in my lifetime could have prepared me for the bed-hunting odyssey that came to pass.
The three oldest mini-Infidels and I wandered into a snooty furniture store to browse and found ourselves getting stalked by this unbelievably geeky, bespectacled salesman in a rousing game of mattress showroom hide-and-seek.
That was fun, especially when we ducked into the next display and watched the salesman devolve into a total state of confusion as he spun his reed-thin neck around Exorcist-style in a futile effort to scan the demo furniture landscape in search of his escaped quarry.
So then we sauntered off next door to the Mattress Expo store where I quickly located a Mattress Queen suitable for an Infidel Queen like myself and at a fairly reasonable price, too.
I sat across from the fusty and abrasive salesman as he wrote up the receipt and arranged a pick-up time for the next day.
At that moment, the other sales guy-who'd been content to passively plop himself down on one of the mattresses during the whole purchase process-seized upon the opportunity to unexpectedly lean over and growl into my ear: "Tomorrow, when you come to pick up your mattress, it'll be just YOU and ME because your kids will be back in school."
And then he sniffed my hair.
I'm very disappointed in Head&Shoulders anti-flake formula shampoo. That stuff should have been like Kryptonite to this flakey guy.
Thoroughly creeped out but too startled to speak, I glared over at this younger version of Jerry Stiller clad in a tacky olive green-hued bowling shirt while he simply smirked lecherously back at me.
I would have liked to christen him with an apropos nickname like "Pillowtop Pushing Perv" but I found out that he actually goes by "Scoobie."
Yes, Scoobie.
Old Scoobie going around sniffing for a Scoobie Snack but the only thing he'll ever get from me is a gigantic Scoobie SMACK!
The oldest Infidel son, Buster, puffed out his chest and curtly told Scoobie that he would be accompanying me to the store the next day and that he takes Kung-Fu.
Scoobie looked disappointed but that didn't stop him from jiggling his paunchy belly in our faces as he showed us his nerdy Ninja moves while singing "Everybody Was Kung-Fu Fighting" off-key.
Upon leaving the store, Scoobie sent my personal Creep-O-Meter soaring through the stratosphere. As we hurriedly stampeded towards the exit, he bellowed out: "Ma'am, don't forget that mattress has a 10-year warranty on it......but don't let ten years pass before you come in and see me again......"
Ewwwww.
I started to wonder if I'd inadvertently stumbled into someplace other than Mattress Expo. Could it be that some of their outside lettering either shorted out or fell off?
I mean, Scoobie acted as though he'd be more comfortable employed at a store called Mattress EXXXpo or Mattress Exposed.
Poor Scoobie is too short to work at Mattress Giant because he's a Mattress (Mental) Midget. Mattress King is also out of the question. The only regal title Scoobie qualifies for is Royal Pain In The Ash.
Mattress Firm? Ummm, no. Fuggedaboutit.
Later in the day, as I relayed the shocking events to my mom, she started laughing and told me that James, the surly salesguy who'd attended us, had hit on her when she'd gone in to pick up her mattress a few months ago.
According to my mom, James loaded the mattress up and then breathily told her that she couldn't possibly handle the mattress without help and that he'd just come home with her and set it up in her bedroom, free of charge.
She declined the offer.
I think Scoobie and James are suffering from a severe onset of delusions; likely a residual effect of inhaling way too many noxious mattress factory fumes during the course of their careers.
I mean, really, has any woman in history given in to these cheesy come-ons? Do these guys think that any lady, anywhere, will suddenly turn to them and sultrily say "Sure, let's go put some mileage on one of these mattress floor samples, right now!"
I bet there's some sort of Mattress Man Monthly publication that James and Scoobie are just dying to write a letter to that starts out with the ubiquitous line: "Dear Mattress Man Monthly: I never thought something like this would happen to me, but........."
Well, I don't happen to know anyone of the female persuasion willing to give them fodder for their steamy story swaps over at the annual Mattress Man convention.
Needless to say, the prospect of another Scoobie encounter didn't thrill me so I forced Papi to sign up for mattress retrieval duties.
I'm happy to report that Scoobie did not make a move on Papi even though he wore his most sexiest, butt-hugging pair of Levi jeans.
Scoobie must subscribe to the "It's 2009 and any lady, any at all, is just FINE!" philosophy.

*By the way, I do LOVE, LOVE, LOVE our new mattress set. It's like a Silent Springs 2000 model; necessary when you have children lingering only a thin wall away from you. We're still debating a proper use for our retired mattress. Here's what we've come up with so far:
A Really Ghetto Trampoline.
Placing the mattress in a corner of the backyard and surrounding it with scented candles so it can function as a specialized Suburban Animal Mating Center.
Donating it to the Princess And The Pea foundation.
Transforming the coils into homemade Moon Boots or Po' Folks Pogo Sticks.
Building our very own Mattress Stonehenge.....until the uptight HOA directors makes us take it down.
I'm open to outside input and ideas. :)*

The Smiling Infidel Has Dirty Fans

It's true. My fans are dirtier than your fans.
Say it with me: How dirty are they?
Oh, very dirty. Very, very dirty.
Dirtier than dirty rice on a dirty floor, dirty.
Until last Friday my ceiling fans were so filthy stinkin dirty that when the oldest Infidel daughter voluntarily cleaned them, the youngest Infidel daughter, Melody looked up with her eyes wide in sheer wonderment as she exclaimed, "Wow! You shaved the gray beard off the fan!!!"
Yes, perhaps I can knit everyone on my Christmas list a nice Nordic-patterned loincloth and matching legwarmers out of the extraordinarily thick and wooly fan dust we collected.
I'm better at making up creative stories than I am at cleaning.
Don't get me wrong, I'm totally grateful to my daughter for braving the dust bunny army marching across the fan blades but it's not like I didn't already have an embellished cover story concocted to explain it away to family coming to our house for the holidays.
I was simply going to tell them that fluffy ceiling fans from the Fuzzy Wuzzy Fan Company are all the rage among the fashionable set in Europe.
Or that I'm a pioneer in the homegrown Gray Toupee business.........or that I'm decorating my whole house in a dingy shade of gray and I color-coordinated the fans first to match everything.
If that fails I suppose I could sprinkle some star-shaped glitter into the piles of dust and sell it at the Flea Market as genuine Stardust.
See, in the time spent writing this post I could have been making money with my vast collection of fan dust.
You should be paying me for my valuable time that I spend here instead of cleaning.

Introducing November's Super Hot Saveboy Savemate Of The Month

Like HI and stuff!
I'm Elastic but all my close personal foodie friends call me Clearance Closeout Queen.
You know like that Billy Ocean song, Caribbean Queen but I'm much better because unlike her I never get sand in my pageant bathing suit-only marked down candy bars that taste like sunscreen.
"Oh, Clearance Closeout Queen.....now we're sharing the same dream..."

My Turn-Ons Include: That Frugal Gourmet Guy, Orange And Red Price Stickers, Special Managers And Their Big, Sexy 'Manager's Special' Pricing Guns, Long Walks Down The Dollar Store Aisles, And Getting Lucky On The Scratch&Dent Tables.

My Turn-Offs Are: Paying Retail, Mean Old Bargain Meat Bin Hags In Flowered House Dresses, Expired Coupons, And The Devastating Heartbreak Of (Package) Shrinkage.

Now HERE'S Where I Show Off My Tantalizing Assortment Of Goodies:

Yes, we've enjoyed an exceptionally good grocery store week. Thanks to coupons, sales, and clearance items I fed my entire Infidel family of 8 for 9 days on $120.00.
That doesn't mean that we strictly dined on Ramen Noodle Surprise or SPAM Casserole either.
Nope. It's been a regular whirlwind of churning out culinary delights from the Infidel kitchen, same as always.
I cooked up something so delectable a few days ago that it made us all drool droplets of spittle into an endless pool of saliva.
Google DONUT MUFFINS, people. Do it now. And then go make some. (PSSSSST.....I used THIS recipe)

Being the Clearance Closeout Queen has its perks!
One of the first entries I wrote here on The Smiling Infidel was about our friendly grocery store SUSHI MAN.
Yesterday Mr. Sushi Man bequeathed an entire bucketful of primo brown rice to me for the sum total of ZERO dollars!
When it comes to free food, I see no color.
I live in a world where brown rice and white rice can live together as one in peace and harmony.
I may not be too expedient in commenting for the next few days as I immerse myself in the wonderful world of rice recipes.
And no, Mr. Sushi Man is not my secret love.
My passion can't be bought for a mere bucket of rice because I'm worth at least a Sushi Sampler Platter or two.

Hey, I Wear The Pants In This Family Too......Even If They Are Crotchless

It's finally happened. Temperatures dropped in Houston out of the sweltering 90 degree range down to a brisk and happy 56 degrees.
I am so ready to give my saturated butt sweat towel a final ceremony to properly celebrate the closing of butt sweat season.
So, my usual boudoir ensemble features the very titillating delights of my all-cotton elastic waist band shorts.
They have bleach spots on them and the drawstring hangs disproportionately longer out of one side.
I hate that.
Whenever I make a midnight potty run that stupid string always dangles down, brushing against my leg and sending me into full scale panic attack.
See, my not yet fully conscious morning mind registers it as a cockroach that's decided to stealthily stake claim on the Infidel Southern Territories that include Mt. Hairy Knee and the Temple Of The Fatted Calf (Calves). And then I start screaming and slapping at the imaginary insect foe. Every time.
Anyway, cooler weather means cooler nights which means that it's time to break out my slinky bedroom winter gear.
You should see my sexy sockwear and matching thermal nightshirt. It's hawt.
So, I don't know how this tragedy befell me but, my favoritest sweatpants in the whole world went into closet storage with a minor hole smack in the crotchal seams and now, just a few months later, the hole has metastasized into the circumference of a personal pan pizza.
That's an ad slogan that will never be used by Pizza Hut.
"Our personal pan pizzas are as large as the hole in the crotch of your sweatpants!"
I put them on anyway figuring that as long as I acted all ladylike and stuff and kept my legs closed, nobody was going to notice the gaping gulch.
Unfortunately I can't watch TV without sprawling about, treating the bed like I'm in stirrups on the Gynecologist's exam table.
I'm terribly uncouth in the confines of my own home.
Well, my man Papi came wandering into the room and was immediately smitten by my racy new evening wear and its innovative "ventilation" system.
Yes indeed, the wonder of crotchless sweatpants combine all the warmth and comfort you've come to expect from your sweats while also showing off your secrety slutty side.
Crotchless Sweatpants: Redneck Lingerie At Its Finest!

The exclusive Crotchless Sweatpants line can be found at all Lurlene's Secret stores or at fine Billy Bob's Of Dollywood retailers everywhere.

I Got The Most Amazing Quickie With My Papi Right In The Middle Of The Grocery Store!

At first my Papi was understandably reluctant. I mean, we're both adventurous spirits and we enjoy trying out new things, but we'd only ever gotten our Quickies over at the Dollar Store.

What would it be like getting a Quickie in the middle of the grocery store's cleaning aisle?

Just the idea of such bourgeois indulgence made me flush with a temporary sense of shame.

Still unsure, Papi leaned towards me and with the soft lilt of his Mucho Mexi accent he hesitantly asked, "Are you sure that you actually need a Quickie right here, right now? Or do you just want a Quickie? There's a big difference between needing and wanting a Quickie, you know."

To which I burst out with a much more enthusiastic response than I had intended as I exclaimed, "YES! Yes! Yes! I definitely need a Quickie!"

Papi finally relented and agreed to my persistent demands for a grocery store Quickie.

As I tightened my grasp on the smoothly rounded hardness in my hands, I knew that this was so right and so very satisfying beyond even my wildest fantasies.

The Quickie experience left me breathless.

It really got the job done.

My dishes have never been cleaner.

My Neighbors Are Dirty Swingers

Don't believe me? Just look at this filthy display they've plopped right in the front yard for all the world to see.
Have they no decency? Whatever happened to shame? Did they leave this out in the open as a sort-of invitation for any and all passerbys to join in with them and their dirty swinger lifestyle?

Well, dangit, I want to be a dirty swinger, too! We have more trees than these people do-and I can surely rustle up some sofa cushions, rope, and white duct tape to make my own set of impoverished Third World Neighborhood swings. I may even add some festive ribbons and a cowbell so that mine's fancier than theirs.

Once I get these marvels of the swinging industry up and running, I'll invite you all to my Welcome To Swingtown! party. I hope you don't mind dropping your keys into a giant empty pickle jar so that we can play a little swap game called Swinger Switcheroo. I'd like to keep my naughty swinger freak side, satisfied.

Spectacularly Stupid Things I've Done: Watch Where You're Walking Edition

I whole-heartedly embrace the bare-footing movement. Yes, that's right, my feet are unabashed nudists. Shocking, no? My fat little tootsies are like wild horses-they refuse to be tamed and made prisoner inside some hellishly sweaty footwear prison. On occasion though, my feet do have to endure a few short stints inside a shoe-shaped holding cell.

You all know my dear Vitamin-A enriched bloggy friend, Carrot Jello, right? Well, she's so kind she would give you the shirt right off her back. When I met her last summer we happened to be wearing the exact same shirt so she instead gave me the shoes right off her feet. Really, she did!

Everytime I wear those black and rubbery Croc-knockoff shoes I think of Carrot Jello and delight in the fact that while we don't live close to another at least our foot sweat can co-mingle inside the same pair of shoes.

As most fellow and former Houstonians know, Houston maintains a stifling 100 percent humidity level even during the night hours.

I wouldn't describe myself as having a "lead foot" but a "hot foot" would be wholly accurate.

So as I was toiling away during the pre-dawn hours the salty perspiration dripped from my every pore. Yes, the sweat just rolled off my Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes, and likely from my Eyes, Ears, Mouth, and Nose, too!

Looking for relief I kicked the Carrot Jello Croc shoes off as I got out of my truck to load up some more newspaper bundles from the back.

Humongous curbside piles of discarded pine needles is a pretty common sight around here so I thought nothing of it when I parked next to one such Pine Needle Welcome Mat blanketing the street.

Blithely I walked barefoot to and fro from the back of the truck to the front of the truck each time stepping on the oddly squishable pine needle pile.

It took about the fifth round trip for the neurons in my brain to communicate with the neurons in my feet and in one startling moment they both realized, "Heeeeyyyy, these pine needles aren't crunchy when we step on them. Where's the familiar stabby sensation they usually make on our bare feet?"

So I squatted down to have a closer look at what I perceived as a friendly Pine-A-Palooza Party..........and then I started screaming, for there, lying in the gutter, was a completely flattened one-dimensional squirrel carcass that I'd been traipsing across as though it were a Squirrel Skin Rug.

The poor Mammalian rodent was so steamrolled it could have been used to write stuff on and then rolled up and secured with a whimsical piece of ribbon. The Dead Squirrel Scrolls.

How I wished that I had a private nurse so at that moment I could turn and bark at her, "Nurse, sterilize these, STAT!" as I held out my festering feet.

If squirrel guts hold some sort of mystical power that'll transform dull, crusty skin into a thing of radiantly flawless beauty, then I shall have the most prettiest feet ever.

*This post won Runner-Up in the essay contest, 'The Roadkill And I Joined Together And Became One......'. Elastic was rewarded a beautiful new squirrel skin cap and squirrel nut ear muffs. Congratulations Elastic!!!*

I Am Outraged At The Gender Inequality This Sign Propagates

Look, I'm not entirely sure if this shop runs a legitimate place of business or if it's actually a clever storefront cover-up meant to conceal a seedy male escort operation. One thing's for certain, though, you must keep your precious mums away from this floral den of iniquity!

They've obviously narrowed down their target female demographic to British, Australian, and Canadian expatriates because they're really the only "mums" around here; everyone else is Mama or just plain Mom. I guess there's good news in all this if you're a love-lorn woman named Rose.....apparently, they'll do you for cheap.

So, I guess we all know exactly what the PLUS in Flowers PLUS is supposed to be mean. This place offers a full-service, one-stop, git-r-done shopping experience. It's definitely more deflower shop than flower shop.

Wow, I Didn't Know You Could Get That In A Giant Economy Pack!

This post is sashaying about flirtatiously right on my self-imposed boundary lines of decency. However, I can no longer quell the constant internal dialogue that strikes up within me whenever I bear witness to the pervasive fugliness on display in this yard. If you're easily offended, this is an opportune time to go catch up on your Smurf latch-hook pillow project you've been working on for the past 25 years.


Behold The Wicked Light Fixtures Lighting Up The Forbidden Path:And Here's The Up Close And Personal And In Yo Face Zoom Version:

Upon further scrutiny with my steely Infidel eyes, all I could think was hoooooollllyyyy crrrraaaapppp, when did the adult novelty stores add a lawn & garden department?

Look, I'm all for dual-function products to optimize efficiency and practicality but these yard lights are careening down a very slippery slope. There's some dark crevices where a light just shouldn't be shone into unless you're a practicing physician. I don't even want to think about the crossover potentials of this kind of perversion. What's next, pulsing, vibrating flashlights for your annual family camp-out? And the very worst part is that while these lawn lights with their solar-charged batteries may be eco-friendly and all, but do we really, honestly want to live in a world where people brazenly flaunt their personal toys right out in the front yard during broad daylight like this?

I think I heard the homewoner somewhere behind the beveled-glass front door crooning the main chorus to You Light Up My Life as I stealthily snapped this picture. Putting the "bedroom" in "bedroom community." Shazam!

I've been a bad, bad girl. I know. I'm ashamed. I need to be punished. You should get out the velevet whi.........oh wait, what you should really do is click right here on this banner for me. It's a secret petition to stop the manufacturers of ugly yard lights. CLICKETY! Gracias.

My Bologna Has A First Name....... And So Does My Feminine Hygiene Product!

From skimpy personalized thongs to giant bean bag chairs, I've seen all kinds of cheesy crap stamped with the gloriousness that is my name. Sadly, after searching for many years, I've still yet to find even one line of feminine hygiene products bearing my moniker- scribbling 'MELISSA' on the front of the package with a black Sharpie marker isn't quite the same. I frequently entertained swirling thoughts of legally changing my name to Tampax or Kotex until the fateful morning I stumbled across this display at our local 99 Cents Only Store. Oh wow, the Julie's of the world really have all the luck, don't they? I'm experiencing serious monogram envy.Now Julie can join the ranks of important females with iconic names like Sara Lee, Betty Crocker, Aunt Jemima, Little Debbie, and Wendy's. I can only imagine the profound befuddlement of the poor men who reside in homes dominated by estrogen as to why their ladies keep talking about someone or something named Julie. Anyway, I've secretly placed a hidden Infidel microphone in just such a home. Let's listen in, shall we?

"I wore white pants today and Julie really let me down. I should sue Julie for the dry cleaning bill."

"I'm riding the Julie Express again for the fourth day in a row."

"Just because Julie has wings doesn't mean that Julie can fly. Kindly walk your Julie to the can instead of throwing Julie across the room"

"That stanky Julie's been all up in my business today."

"I'm so glad that Julie was with me when Aunt Flo came to visit. Aunt Flo can be a real pain in the azz but Julie absorbs everything she can dish out with no complaints!"

"No, I'm sorry, not tonight, honey. I've already got Julie between my legs."

At certain times of the month my world revolves around you, Julie. Also, I can honestly say that you've boldly gone where no Julie has ever gone before. Congratulations, Julie!

Don't you forget about me. I'll be alone, dancing you know it, baby. Don't you forget about me....don't, don't, don't. Don't you...... forget about me. Please click. Gracias!

I Wonder If The Christian Rock Group P.O.D Was Actually Named After Passive Odor Dispensers? (Their Music Does Stink, After All)

While roosting on the potty at Kroger's grocery store last week I noticed these air-freshener devices strategically placed throughout the bathroom.

I think it's most unfortunate that Kroger's resorted to using such cut-rate sanitizing tools. Why would they assume that something labeled as "passive" would put up a valiant deodorizing effort in fighting the evil armies of malodorous poopy particles?

Now, I've been characterized as demonstrating extreme passive/aggressive behavior on occasion- but never just solely passive. Basically, I'm a hardcore Aggressive Odor Dispenser. I laugh haughtily in the face of the feeble stink combat skills that a simple Passive Odor Dispenser brings to the Stankfest Games.

Yes, I entered into fierce one-on-one competition with the Passive Odor Dispenser, determined to prevail. I'm proud to say that through diligent straining and struggling I was declared the definite victor in our intense match.

My win proved to be a loss for the other restroom patrons, though.

*The Passive Odor Dispenser at humor-blogs.com only works when you pull their finger*

The Smiling Infidel:Spicier Than The Spice Channel

Okay, I've adopted a set of useful rules to keep me safe while working during the graveyard shift.
Rule Number One:Do not make eye contact with strangers or engage them in conversation.

So one morning, a few months ago, I stopped at the friendly neighborhood Valero gas station for some very important Nacho Time. As I walked in, I noticed this gigantic mass of a man wearing a mesh trucker cap and stuffed into a nastily stained gray T-shirt underneath a red-checkered flannel shirt. He was leaning his massive body over the rectangular cooler filled with iced-down beer and looked like the long-lost identical twin of Billy Pratt who plays Kurt Russell's best friend in the classic 80's cheeseball film, Overboard. Oh, don't even come around here and pretend that you haven't seen that movie, because I know better. I bet you sit around and watch it every time its the Saturday Matinee Movie on TV and mouth the dialogue right along with the characters. (I do!)

Anyway, so I stroll off to the back of the store to get some bottled water and then make my way over to the oozing font of processed nacho cheese goodness when I hear Mr. Hee-Haw bellow out to me in a maddeningly slow Southern drawl, "How you doin, young lady?"

I fervently continued on with my nacho mission and completely avoided his red-eyed gaze as I politely answered, "Fine."

The man still continued to try to chat me up even though my back was to him and I'm obviously blowing him off. Now admittedly, I was dressed in my super sultry 'Where My Peeps At?' T-shirt that I bought for $1.99 at Walgreens Drug Store paired with my seductive Hanes Her Way gray cotton capri pants and crusty Birkenstock sandals. I mean, who can really blame the guy for ogling my divine beauty? Can't nobody work the Manual Laborer Hottie look like I can.

The Valero attendant knows me by name and understands my nacho addiction. He scurried to the back to bring out a dish of fresh jalapenos for me as I stood there waiting, paper nacho tray in hand..

Mr. Hee-Haw actually stood up straight, detaching himself from his beer cooler perch, and excitedly waved his arms around while hollering at me in his mouth-full-of-moon-pie way, "Jalapenos? Now I know it's true. You is the woman of my dreams!!!!"

Crap.

It became obvious that he wanted to cart me off and make me the Queen of his double-wide trailer. The sound of 'Dueling Banjos' started ringing in my ears. Apparently, Mr. Hee-Haw has very rigid criteria in selecting a woman. I can only imagine his online dating application on the line where it asks to specify his perfect match: "Must Love Jalapenos." It's a bit disconcerting that he identified me as the woman of his redneck dreams. I wonder what the woman of his nightmares must be like? It's probably the saucy server over at Pancho's Mexican Buffet who sternly told him, "I'm sorry sir, but you've eaten every last chili relleno in this place. I'm going to have to ask you to leave now."

As I stood at the register paying, Mr. Hee-Haw attempted one final maneuver......he complimented my awesome red truck and asked if he could go along with me to help throw my paper route.

I'm a heartbreaker. When I screeched an emphatic "NOOOOOO!" at him I could actually hear his ego whooshing out like when you sit down on one of those squishy, padded toilet seats. Ssssssssssssss.

I find it incredibly sad that a guy so old has to resort to trawling for fat, married chicks at a convenience store. His pick-up lines were also incredibly sad. Isn't there a 'Picking Up Women At The Gas Station For Dummies' book that he can consult and take notes?

My Papi thought the whole incident was funny, especially since I had to fend off the amorous advances of the decrepit and ancient Matzo Man just last year. I guess consuming so many spicy jalapenos has made me a red-hot mama; irresistible to all who encounter me. :)

Meet The Man Who Takes The Saying 'Idle Hands Are The Devil's Tools' Very Seriously

It's fairly obvious that together, me and my oldest Infidel daughter, Sunbum are destined to join the hallowed ranks of history's most amazing super sleuths.
Despite an upbringing by two evil conservative parents who believe in small government, capitalism, and making ceremonial loin cloths out of hippie hides to worship at the altar of Dick Cheney, Sunbum retains an astonishingly high E.Q. level for her empathy.

High E.Q. Level= A Future Life As A Burned-Out Social Worker

So while we cruised the grocery store produce section shamelessly groping the tart, young arugula bunches Sunbum and I spotted a middle-aged man clad in a faded, red plaid flannel shirt ambling kind of lopsided towards us.

Sunbum whispered urgently into my ear, "Aww, look at that poor guy. He only has one arm. Can I offer to help him with his basket?"

At that moment the one-armed man crossed in front of us and we discovered that he wasn't really a one-armed man after all. No, indeed he wasn't. Instead he had his right arm firmly positioned behind him thus giving the appearance of a missing limb. Unfortunately, we also bore solemn witness to his hand tucked inside the back of his jeans vigorously and furiously scratching his arse. Ewwww, the very definition of 'crusty poop fingers' springing to life!

Oh Alanis, I could practically write another verse of your song after seeing that guy....."Cause he had one hand in his pocket and the other one digging for butt nuggets." Maybe he was breaking in a new pair of linty boxer shorts and the accumulated buttpulp in his crack became too much to bear?

Whatever the reason, Sunbum and I quickly realized that we'd inadvertently stumbled upon a previously unexplored solution to the infamous 'Fugitive'
case immortalized on T.V and film.

Dr. Kimble shouldn't waste any more time futilely searching the world over for the sadistic one-armed man who brutally killed his wife. What he needs to do is re-direct his attention towards finding a suspicious man cursed with an inflammatory butt rash! Although, I wouldn't recommend trying to apprehend this suspect without the aid of latex gloves and an industrial sized bottle of anti-bacterial gel.

And Together Papi And I Are Makin' Bacon!

Papi and I have a shared employer in common named Mr. O.
Mr. O enjoys referring to Papi as "Boss" on a daily basis.
"Boss" as in Boss Hogg from The Dukes Of Hazzard.
"Boss" as in "Hey Boss! Will you go and collect subscription money from this deadbeat customer in the dark of night even though he has NRA stickers pasted all over his rusted-out El Camino?"

Mr. O constantly calls me "Babe."
"Babe" as in the wee little sheep-herding piggie in the movie of the same name. Apparently I'm just like a pig in the city.
"Babe" as in "What's going on Babe? How much longer will you allow me to work you and your man to death for an itty-bitty paycheck that wouldn't even buy a barrel of pickled pigs feet on the black market?"

From my own perspective, this just further solidifies that Papi and I were meant to be together. We're a matched set, we are. Pig and Pig oinking happily into the sunset with our hooves intertwined. This goes a long way towards explaining why our house is such a Pig Pen all the time. And really I can't yell at the mini-Infidels for acting like little piglets anymore, can I? After all, it's certainly not their fault that they're a pork by-product.

I guess Pork:The Other White Meat only applies to me since my Papi is a striking shade of yummy mocha. :(

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